


These Sinful Ways

by papoula



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Other, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, or not really I'm weak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22424599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papoula/pseuds/papoula
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale loved each other. If demons sin, and angels virtue, what would Love be in itself?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	These Sinful Ways

Crowley and Aziraphale rarely did have fights.

There were discussions, surely, and many a discussion for that matter; but they all lacked the honest stroke of seriousness that made your heart clench and your pride sway over the many possible ways to apologize, because an apology seems only trifling next to the possibility of tinging something inestimable.

There was friendly quarrel, a definitive lot of it. Between the right way to eat your chips and the historical accuracy of Virgin Mary’s representation as an actual virgin, Crowley scoffed and Aziraphale whimpered like it was in their adimensional essences to argue. The parlay, for the two of them, felt like the natural course of existence, perhaps because, when it came down to their relationship, everything always _had_. Being apart, it was a wire being tugged, ever since they shared that first rain in Paradise; as if someone had enveloped their hearts in cotton strings, that very moment, and linked it with a very intricate – and, why not? Ineffable - knot. Their existence in this world was maybe intertwined, and Aziraphale often felt like committing a tiny blasphemy, thinking of themselves as the divine parents of the human family – could it be that She actually meant for it to happen? He supposed he would never know, just like any other humble being there was... but it was in his best ethereal interests, to act in name of Love.

Which…

Which undoubtedly was the force driving whatever it was he shared with the pompous demon in the black leather jacket.

That having been said -

Beings of accounted-for and surprisingly-there love, the angel and the demon rarely did have fights.

This fact is what made it that much more confusing for Crowley when a simple bouquet of flowers sparked between them the frustrated anger of Greek gods in spar.

Crowley would have told you all about it, if just to receive a faint clue of whatever the fuck was going on, so here’s how it went.

They got together for any made up reason that Crowley didn’t really remember – might have been because Aziraphale had won a vintage Portuguese wine from a client as a means of appraisal and needed to indulge in it with his bestest acquaintance; might have been because Crowley said he’d had a lousy week what with the developments of neofascist policies and all, and the angel wanted to prove the benefits of food for emotional well-being. But he was somewhat partial to the idea that they decided to commemorate the passage of five years since they managed to sidestep the pseudo-apocalypse. And the non-extermination of humanity.

So far.

Thing is, the talk flowed so naturally between them that it was a bit difficult to be keeping tags on who said what and when and why. It just was what it was. They did stuff together because it made sense, even if the rationalization behind it hadn’t been put to test.

And Crowley loved it. Only, that time, misunderstandings about their intentions made handling things troublesome.

The night of the misunderstanding, Crowley came home from his yoga class to find an angel standing on his doorstep.

It _was_ the one angel he’d come to care for, but it almost was _not_. As much as there was Aziraphale, dressed in his plaids and tartans, sporting a lovely subtle blush and a tiny awkward smirk, there was Aziraphale! – smelling like tons of an unknown cologne, dressed with a bowtie entirely too red, carrying a bouquet of burgundy orchids.

It was completely out of place in Crowley’s reality.

However, anything that had pushed Aziraphale to the limits of extravaganza had Crowley’s curiosity immediately – had to give him that.

He eyed Aziraphale up and down, before turning to play keys at the door. And then giving up the habit and miracling it open.

“… Suave, angel.”

He heard Aziraphale’s unsatisfied huffs as he followed him inside the flat.

“Don’t you like the flowers? I thought it was… Quite your style, dear.”

Crowley paused in front of his kitchen cabinet and let that sink in. Why, Aziraphale had him flowers as a gift.

Huh.

The angel looked at him expectantly, the once faded smirk there in his plump face again, and dared Crowley say it, just as awkward.

“Are those for me, then? I do like orchids, I suppose. How’d you know that?”

Aside from hearing him jabbering on and on about plants for six millennia.

“Oh, the nice old lady from the flower shop told me about these devious flowers which just steal all they need from whoever’s next to them – I thought immediately of you, of course!”

“’S right. I do love me some meanies.” Crowley said, leaving the wine glasses on the bench and marching to caress the orchids with admiring eyes. They looked like vicious little monsters, reddened veins and yellowed teeth. Quite marvelous. “Maybe they can teach a thing or two to the spoiled kids down the hall.”

“Oh, I’m so delighted you liked it! But, if you would, don’t give the others a hard time. I’m worried these little ones might like to bully.”

“Relax, angel!”, Crowley shouted from his way to the hall where the plants flourished. He placed the orchids on a heightened stand, making sure to let them linger there the night away, so the other plants could stand under the greatness and fear it.

Good for the character, he reckoned.

When he got back to the living room, Aziraphale was sitting on the couch, his legs crossed and two glasses of wine in hand. The Portuguese open on the coffee table, one foot tapping the floor.

There it was, the smirk again; as soon as Aziraphale laid eyes on him.

_Cute_ -

It crossed his mind – the place a word like this was never supposed to be.

Aziraphale was acting so strange that day. He didn’t know what annoyed him more: the fact that it was a bit hard to recognize his friend, or that, beneath the unusual exterior, he seemed infuriatingly more charming than ever.

He figured he knew that Aziraphale. Out-of-rhythm Aziraphale was one of his all-time favorites. There were always these tiny things that made such a difference – and Crowley was simply able to tell them all. The way he smelled, the way his eyes darted, how he fretted, the figure his lips made; however small, Crowley knew it immediately. He knew they never left Aziraphale without that spike of unintentional grace.

He was, quite certainly, the only one who knew. And didn’t it give him the thrills.

So yeah, curse charming, clumsy Aziraphale.

He sat next to the angel and slouched, a little closer than intended. Aziraphale squirmed, but stayed where he was. Their thighs touched. Crowley turned his face to stare at him matter-of-factly. He felt a little drunk already.

“Do pass thy wine, spawn of the heavens.”

“There you are, dear. Let’s toast before we drink, shall we? A very special occasion tonight, after all.”

“What _do_ you mean, by the way? What’d you get me flowers for? Is it for the not-apocalipse celebration?”

Aziraphale smiled sheepishly, his eyes darting to the wine in his hands. It tumbled across the glass like deep-red ocean waves.

“Yes… You could say that.” He clarified. Or not. “There are few better ways to celebrate our freedom than indulging in these sinful ways, am I right?”

Crowley lowered his glasses down his nose, staring at him meaningfully. “I _have_ been rubbing off on you, haven’t I?”

The angel chuckled.

“I’m teasing, of course. I’m sure She’s not offended over two simple comrades such as ourselves merely relishing in the pleasures She’s made real. It’s not hurting anyone, after all.”

Crowley scoffed.

“Almost every church would disagree with you on that.”

“Oh, churches! What _do_ they know, anyway? They’re all full of pretentious men, dressed fancy, thinking they know everything from reading words.”

“Christ, what’s gotten into you? Since when do you think that?”

Aziraphale was flustered, his color almost meeting that of the bowtie. His words carried some exasperation, but he managed a smile nonetheless, the irritation fading away as he considered his words.

“Yes, well… I guess I got a bit carried away. I’m sorry, dear. I just ran into some divergence of opinion from the Church these days, you know.” He hesitated, sipping the wine, and glanced from behind the glass at Crowley. “Some personal issues, even.”

But before Crowley could inquire as to what he meant, Aziraphale blurted out.

“The Pope is perfectly fine, though! Good thing, that. Tell me, what do you think of the wine? It’s somewhat earthy, no?”

“Yes, quite.” Crowley mused about the wine, and Aziraphale in his rebellious ways, and became a bit nostalgic about the 1920’s. “Don’t it rhyme with Ella to you?”

The angel grinned mischievously. 

“It does, you devious snake with an ear for wine.”

And so they drained the bottle, and Aziraphale smelled of a musky scent. Smelled almost of apples, he marveled. Ella Fitzgerald’s voice thundered on somewhere in the flat and he thought he fancied some cigars, so he miracled a pair and they savored them.

When Crowley finished his own, Aziraphale still made clouds of smoke in the air, seemingly calmer.

He was so beautiful like this, Crowley wondered. It was the cheeks, maybe. Those cherry-red, laughing cheeks – warm, they oughta been. He snaked his shrewd fingers over the sofa’s back, aware that he treaded dangerous territory. Just to see… Maybe, closer, those cheeks would heat him up all right.

After all, Aziraphale barely seemed to notice.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s own dozy eyes stared at him, too suddenly. “You listening to me?”

“Sorry, wha’? Bit distracted.”

“I was sayin’… No good wasting your time here in this flat. Not that it’s not pretty in its own – own doomsday style. Just saying. You, me. We’re living apart now. But”, and then he straightened in the couch, mingling his hands in front of himself. “We’re _together_ now. One side, right?”

He wasn’t much sure where Aziraphale was going with that, but he supposed he meant to spend more time with him. It gave Crowley some warm feelings, deep down somewhere.

“You know.” He went on, heavy eyes searching Crowley for something, a bit desperate. And then he voiced, low and sweetly, a request of some kind Crowley didn’t understand. “Why not together on all sides? The two of us.”

Crowley just laughed lightly at the lack of sense it made and looked away. Felt like swooning.

So soft, he was. So weird. Crowley’s heart fluttered as he realized that much more of this and he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the deception that he wasn’t in love with his best friend.

Crowley paused.

In love. With Aziraphale.

His mind throbbed. He stared, puzzled. Bouncy curls, frustrated frown. He had an attitude, his angel.

Yes, he knew. He knew since – well, a _long_ time. But it had never been… just as easy. It’d never been so _safe_ to wonder.

Wonder what it would be like to look into those eyes, so blue they did look like Heaven, look into them and confess to love like a demon never loved before. And to love him.

He peeked at Aziraphale. He was still there, so close they touched.

To wonder what it would be like to touch his hand to Aziraphale’s shoulder and not let it fall. Let it linger there, as if in request. May I touch you? May I love you from now on?

It did feel good, to let his mind amble through impossible scenarios, like he had never truly indulged in. He was aware he was staring. The piano whispered that they should be dancing to these songs, and to imagine… He’d hold his angel close, the curve of his hips. Maybe touch the infinite curls of his hair. He’d groom them one by one, forever, if Aziraphale only asked.

Aziraphale’s eyes were distant now. Maybe he was frustrated over his poor way with words. He should’ve just sobered up, really. Crowley asked the Heavens why must Aziraphale make everything harder for himself than it already was.

His sweet angel, drunk and sad. Thank – thank God? Can you hear me, Mom? Thank you for letting me take care of this angel.

He scuttled closer still. Aziraphale noticed, looking at him.

“Crowley…?”

His cheeks were still flushed from the wine and the anxiety, he supposed.

Crowley wondered…

But then he realized. Realized he could actually feel them to know if they were warm.

It was simple as that now.

So he reached for one of Aziraphale’s cheek and cupped it.

Yes, quite warm. The angel’s eyes were gentle, but his heart beat fast – Crowley felt it through the proximity. His skin was very soft, and Crowley’s fingers raked the surface. It would be simple too – the way human mouths met, like they were bound to collide. Grand, but unavoidable. He needed only let them be.

But Crowley couldn’t do that. He needed a reason. An explanation. He couldn’t ruin this, couldn’t let his impulsive demonic nature corrupt the only meaningful thing in his life.

He did go too fast most times.

If there was one bloody thing he’d learned in these millennia of coexistence was that Aziraphale needed to be eased into things, otherwise he could very well burst.

So he closed his eyes, and breathed in, all the air he possibly could, along with the poignant cologne. And expired, putting distance between them.

“Need a second, angel. Be right back.”

Crowley fled to his bedroom for a moment, to think of something. Anything. He’d do it. He’d show Aziraphale, all the love he kept hidden in a little box under seven spells and five lockers, for thousands of years.

He sobered up. Paced the rooms tirelessly after an idea, until he stopped in front of the burgundy orchids – and just like that, as if they feared some courage into his cowardly heart, he knew how to do it.

He strolled into the living room, the bouquet of orchids in one hand, a single flower in the other.

It was a white poppy.

The demon attempted a smile, as he saw Aziraphale stand, sobered up himself. But Aziraphale’s face had none of the haughty exasperation it’d had earlier. It had now, only… an odd kind of sorrow. The lips curved downwards.

Crowley stared. Could he really have ruined it? Already? Without even a first try?

“Well. I see...” Aziraphale said, rubbing his hands.

“What? Look, Aziraphale, I have to say –”

But the angel interrupted, making his way towards him.

“No, Crowley. It’s okay. This was a mistake, surely.”

Crowley’s heart froze. His stomach lurched as if the butterflies turned into zombies and started eating him from the inside.

He’d ruined it all right.

“Aziraphale, you should know, at least –”

“Crowley, dear” the angel held his hand, making sure he’d listen. The look in his eyes was earnest, filled with a sad request. “I don’t think I could hear you say it. Please, don’t, if you care for me at all.”

Why, of course he cared!

It was one thing for Aziraphale not to retribute his feelings, but he needn’t be pretentious about it. Just because he was an angel created by God for loving, didn’t mean he was the only one who could get it right!

“I’m not in hell anymore, Aziraphale. Can do as I please. Can say or feel whatever I want and I don’t need another angel or demon or any bastard judging me, all right?”

Aziraphale stared at him harder, his lips pursing in clear disappointment.

“Why must you be so mean, Crowley? Sometimes I even forget you’re a demon… It’s a good thing you remind me often enough.”

That stung.

He could count on his fingers the number of times Aziraphale had said something so candidly about his unforgivable soul.

He let the feeling sink in.

It was too much even for him… So, surely, he understood. He understood that it’d never be easy for an angel to love a demon. Even if they were free. Wouldn’t change that his eyes were slitted, and his skin scaled and his soul tainted.

He couldn’t ask of Aziraphale to love him, if She couldn’t do it Herself.

But it hurt. Bloody hurt…

Aziraphale’s eyes watered as he made for the orchids. There was little strength in Crowley to argue, much less to hold them in place.

What was that? They couldn’t even be friends anymore? Had he ruined that much, at last?

With a cumbersome farewell, Aziraphale went through the door. Normally, he would’ve fought for his flowers – fought for his friend… But as it was, Crowley simply felt like transporting to a faraway place, to let the world have him.

He’d go to a white poppy field, somewhere around the country. There he’d sing Queen at the top of his lungs, and no one would hear; he’d lay on the dirt and beg the wind to drag away his pain.

And he’d do a lot of wondering.

Good grief, what had just happened?

* * *

Aziraphale prided himself in his abilities to face the world’s chagrins, but nothing had prepared him to deal with the heartbreak from such a personal unrequited love. He’d known many souls he’d loved far more than the opposite; but none whose love he’d wished back as fiercely.

Maybe that was because he’d taken Crowley’s love for granted… He’d always done so. It wasn’t as easy for Crowley to love someone as it was for him. He had forgotten, after so many years, that a demon was not like an angel. If he was honest with himself, he’d harbored much hope that they were, deep down, one and the same.

That was still possible, of course. Maybe Crowley could love someone else just as much… Maybe only not Aziraphale.

And after binge-watching loads of romantic comedies on Netflix, cursing heterosexual white men as if they were fallen angels themselves, and eating a lot of ice cream, he settled on the belief that he’d simply been a selfish prick.

Love was what he did best.

And he loved unconditionally. He forgave unconditionally, as per his Mother’s image. He would always love Crowley, even if Crowley didn’t love him back the same way.

Because Crowley, the demon, was as deserving of forgiveness and care as any other being in the universe. He was as deserving of hope as anyone else, and it wasn’t fair to be neglected that grace over romantic possession of Aziraphale’s part…

Even after all the effort Aziraphale had managed to understand his feelings… even after he thought he was loving Crowley by accepting that they had something other than a simple friendship; something few God-fearing institutions would acknowledge. Even after clarifying he preferred God-loving ones, now. He thought it was all for Crowley, he’d done it all in name of the love they shared.

But he recognized now, that it had been selfish… He should have done it for Loving someone was divine in every way. He should’ve done without expecting any reward. Should’ve satisfied himself with being closer to Her image…

And now, loving Crowley, even if the demon didn’t retribute, would be his way of redeeming himself.

Love was what he did best. Therefore, there was no one better to say: loving was _hard_.

But it paid back.

That was why, after one month without seeing or hearing from his best friend, wallowing in human breakup rituals, he decided upon getting over himself and that silly fight. He’d go after Crowley, wherever he was, and let him know he regretted reacting the way he did.

Finding him was never hard.

He didn’t know why, but some kind of Providence had always led him to Crowley.

First, he tried the flat. When he got there, however, no one answered the door; he tried teleporting inside, rude as it was, for not seeing Crowley after that discussion was giving him the nerves. Same – no one was home. Hadn’t been for some time. The furniture was accumulating dust.

That was Crowley’s way of facing depressed periods of his life. He’d turn a blind eye to everything that wasn’t his plants, his car or himself. Sure enough, the plants were being watered, Aziraphale noted with relief.

The angel caressed their leaves, thinking back sadly to Crowley returning the orchids. He wondered if he was rejecting them because he didn’t want to have anything to do with Aziraphale’s love anymore, or if he knew that it was part one of a love confession to come, finding it prudent to give it back. He hoped it was the latter. Truly… He didn’t know how to live in this world without Crowley’s company.

It must’ve been unhealthy. Blasphemous, even. But it was what it was.

So he gathered his will, and his love, intending to leave all his hurt pride behind as he made his way towards the country fields. It was almost funny, the way he seemed to be tugged in that direction. He imagined, sometimes, when this kind of feeling intervened, that it was God Herself leading him by the hand.

To picture Her linking his hand to Crowley’s, in the end… was such a wondrous thought he almost wept.

To his surprise, the sight he beheld when he got to Crowley was nearly as fascinating as divine intervention itself.

A long way down the hill on top of which he stood, Crowley sat on the ground, a puny black figure surrounded by a sea of white flowers. They convulsed in harmony according to the humors of the wind, but Crowley stood still. Aziraphale, as if one of the flowers himself, swayed unavoidably towards his friend, guided by a Force greater than his isolated existence.

As he approached, Crowley seemed to sense him. The demon turned his head to face him, eyes unfortunately cloaked by his dark sunglasses. He groaned and fell to his back.

The pain in his heart convulsed rebelliously as he took Crowley’s image in. The sleek odd frame over which he’d poured love and affection for long… Lying there, looking so uniquely Crowley. Promising cheeky replies and sweet overthinking. He was specially pretty surrounded by the contrasting white flowers – like they brought out the care he liked to pretend he didn’t foster.

Aziraphale saw it now, the flowers – they looked like the one Crowley had in hand in his flat, when he returned the orchids.

“Yes?” Crowley said simply, gazing at the sky, trying to be obvious about his impatience.

Aziraphale’s heart was somewhat tight at Crowley’s bitterness. He had to remind himself the demon probably didn’t mean it. Probably.

“Hello, Crowley. Would you… Hum. Would you mind it terribly if I sat beside you?”

Crowley glared at him, then, his face contorting into a grimace.

“What are you talking about, angel? ‘Course I wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh. Well, that’s mighty fine, then.”

“Wouldn’t _you_ mind sitting next to a demon, though?”

Oh, yes. There it was.

“Look, Crowley.”, he started, sitting and making an effort at looking honestly at his friend before things got out of hand again. “I don’t intend to fight. Please.”

Crowley peeked at him tentatively from the ground.

“… Go on.”, he said.

Aziraphale hesitated, measuring and comparing sentences in his mind. It was like handling porcelain.

Crowley finally got up and faced him, lifting an eyebrow.

Aziraphale sighed. It wasn’t that hard to swallow his pride, after all… Because seeing this friendship laid out on the table made it too clear how far he’d go to, how much he’d sacrifice just to keep it safe. Pride had never cherished his heart as this demon had.

That’s why the words practically tumbled out.

“I’m so sorry, dear. I should never have said that to you… Should never have implied that you’re evil or stained or anything.”

“I am, though. You know, demon? Fallen, disgraced, depraved, yada, yada.”

“No, Crowley!”, he begged, searching Crowley’s eyes that could be anywhere behind the dark lenses “I don’t believe that, and neither should you. In fact, I think… You’re…” Aziraphale hesitated again, not knowing how to proceed. He decided to be honest. “Well, if I must say it, I think your… soul is quite beautiful, darling.”

Crowley’s eyes were still hidden, but his face betrayed the blankness of it. He furrowed his brow; his lips pursed.

Finally, he shook his head.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Of course I do! I do, Crowley.”

And then, knowing that Crowley wouldn’t doubt it:

“I wouldn’t lie to you about this, dear.”

The demon was silent for a while. He played with the petals, and the wind made his coppery hair dance. His jaw tensed from time to time. Aziraphale breathed in the fresh air, trying to appreciate the view.

His heart should be breaking still… And yet, it wasn’t. Crowley’s company nursed his pain into sleep. He kept himself from touching the long fingers caressing a white petal as if it were a lover’s face.

He probably shouldn’t invest in _that_ thought.

“Why d’you think so, then?” Crowley tried, finally.

“Why do I think your soul is beautiful? My dear friend… I’ve known you so long. I know it when you care for the humans, I know it when you do those little miracles that mean the world to them when you think there’s no one watching. I know it when you help me, give me gifts, spend time with me. I do know it, when you love me...”

He had hoped saying that wouldn’t make his friend uncomfortable, but apparently it did. Crowley blushed intently at that, and turned his face as far away as possible, still trying to maintain his nonchalant pose but failing as his muscles tensed.

“So?”

“I don’t mean it that way! Ah… I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable. I mean, it’s clear to me that you… You don’t want me in any romantic way whatsoever. I know that. But you have to understand that our friendship isn’t devoid of love – it´s, well, it’s full of it! It’s sort of why I care so much for it. And why I care deeply for apologizing and having it back…”

Crowley stared at him frowning.

“Please?”, Aziraphale attempted.

“What?”, the demon asked.

He looked entirely befuddled.

“Oh, you know. We’re not together as in a romantic relationship, but we do care about each other. I do, at least. I’m fairly sure you do, too. Otherwise you wouldn’t have saved my books in the forties, or frightened those real state businessmen who kept tormenting me, or given me massages then gotten me those Canadian bath salts…”

Crowley tossed away his sunglasses suddenly, his inquisitive stare intense as he closed in the space between them. His eyes were wide.

“Aziraphale!”, Crowley all but shouted. “ _Are you telling me_ … No, let me rephrase that. You’re telling me, that you-” he gesticulated frenetically towards the angel.

Aziraphale nodded, not even knowing why. He admitted to be terrified.

“You _think._ I don’t want to be you partner? As in, romance. Romantic partner, is what I mean. That what you’re saying?”

“Well… Yes?” Aziraphale muttered, a bit resentful at his tone. “Like I said before, there’s no need to be rude about it, I assure you it hurts plenty as it is.”

Crowley just settled then, his chin atop his fist, and shook his head in some kind of dismay.

“I’m pretty sure our communication process was fucked up somewhere in the middle of it, angel.”

And what did that even mean?

“Why… Why would you say that?”

He never answered, extending a hand between them instead. He moved it with caution, mimicking the action of the night they fought, when he cupped Aziraphale’s cheek.

Aziraphale’s heart galloped in his chest as Crowley touched the tips of his fingers to his cheek. He didn’t understand what was happening. But he dared hope… That something had changed?

Crowley swallowed. His eyes were pretty, Aziraphale wondered, with that ever-present ache from lacking. Nothing like them, really. Their lids were pending and the brow still furrowed in concentration.

“What would you say…”, Crowley breathed out in the softest of voices, a tiny, unintended, bit charming. “Are your feelings for me?”

“I’d say… I love you.”

He looked deep into Crowley’s eyes – demon eyes – then, trying to convey all the honesty he could around himself, hoping he’d feel it.

“I love you as my friend, whom I cherish, and for whom I care. As my best friend, really. Who I’d like to call just to hang out, or get stupid drunk, or to chat nonsense, mostly. Who I’d like to keep close to for the rest of time… It’s really, because… I love you as more than my best friend, Crowley. I love you _more_.”

The demon bit his lip, then. His palm was firmer still on Aziraphale’s face.

“Why did you leave, then, angel? Why did you take the orchids back with you?”

“Crowley, I didn’t, I… thought you were giving them back to me. Because you didn’t want me that way, didn’t want to be with me as anything _more_ …”

“I – I do. Do want to be more, that is. With you.”

And the excitement that bubbled then, the relief, couldn’t be controlled by Aziraphale’s sense of self-preservation. He wanted so bad to believe that it was natural to jump into the feeling.

He let it blossom and smiled earnestly. To hell with all the qualms.

“I brought the orchids to show you…” Crowley continued, just as soft, maybe just as relieved, with a heartfelt smile of his own. “I was going to tell you how much you meant to me, angel.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale barely let through a mewl before he pulled Crowley close into an embrace, nesting his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck. The demon tensed briefly before giving in to it and relaxing into Aziraphale’s arms.

“Tis quite a lot, I must say.”

Aziraphale broke apart to behold him.

“Oh, my dear…” He caressed Crowley’s cheek now, because he could, and the demon leaned into his touch, closing his eyes. “I’m so glad to hear that… You have no idea.”

Crowley covered his hand and held it into place to make a statement… of how perfectly happy he was himself? Aziraphale’s hand hurt for some unknown reason that the human body seemed to enclose; it seemed like his feelings were so great they hurt, yearned to transpose his skin. He marveled at how much meaning he’d lost coming from his friend – the possibilities made him giddy.

“Hmm, if you don’t mind me asking. How exactly _were_ you going to do that…? Show me how much I mean to you?” His words broke at the end of the sentence.

Crowley chuckled, freeing his hand and losing the smile. He looked somewhere else, at the whiteness.

“You remembered me when you saw those orchids, right? The gloom and subtle charm and whatnot, I mean.” He snickered. “I guess I just thought I’d show… What unfolds when I remember you.”

He looked at the immensity of the white fields then, seemingly humbled by it, the palms of his hands trying to encompass all of it. Aziraphale’s chest pained.

“Whatever do you mean by that, Crowley?”

He plucked a flower and played with its petals.

“This poppy, angel… I made it grow. This one and all the others. I couldn’t show anyone before, of course, because a demon isn’t supposed to –” He struggled with the word. “… Love. Let alone… Make something out of it.

The thing is, I’ve always had to hide this business I felt for you, and then it got so – so big, I had to put it somewhere, didn’t I? All this burden that no one could know about. I hated it, Aziraphale, but at the same time… It felt so pure. Kind of reminded me, you know… Of _home_.

So I made this. It was a little garden, at first. But it all just tumbled out, eventually.”

He shrugged and made a face.

“Nothing special, really.”

Aziraphale felt his mouth go slack as he tried to contemplate the vastness of the white fields embracing his view – he didn’t try to contain the tears, imagining the emotion sprouting was trickling in any form as delicate as white poppy flowers down his own face.

It was mesmerizing. How could he have thought this creature incapable of love? Such a holy love, so pure, so devoted, was staring him at the face and all he could do was admire it.

Crowley looked to him with his raw self, waiting weakly for something. He offered him the poppy he’d plucked.

Aziraphale took it. He saw himself in Crowley’s eyes, for a moment. Soft and innocent and real. Lovely, he deemed. All of it, this graceful allure, it was all for him.

“I’m unable to put into words, Crowley… How overwhelmed I feel by you love. It is quite divine, dear.”

Crowley scuttled closer and rested one hand on his neck, nuzzling the skin beneath his collar like he nuzzled the petals; stopping to brace the back of his nape. It made the hairs of Aziraphale’s body bristle with anticipation.

A request.

“Will you show me, then?”, Crowley voiced, his voice as low and silken as that of a sinful snake. Which maybe he was, and maybe he wasn’t, by that point.

Aziraphale simply melted, for he didn’t dare worry about that controversy at the moment. It felt just right, just right.

So he closed his eyes and let himself gravitate towards Crowley. Their bodies had a way of complementing each other’s chasms that made it effortless for them to collide. Their lips met as he weaved fingers through Crowley’s hair. Crowley’s kiss was heavy, wet, longing.

Suddenly there was nothing else but the pressure and warmth of the demon’s body against him. He considered, in that moment, that if infernal heat felt like that, it shouldn’t be too hard to endure. But all of a sudden it felt as if they existed in par with the field of poppies, waving along with the fresh wind.

And as intense as Crowley’s presence was, as demanding as the moment seemed, he paused to lick Aziraphale’s lower lip like they had all the time in the world.

Maybe they did.

Crowley peppered Aziraphale with damp kisses over his lower lip, the corners of his mouth, letting, time and again, a breathless smile escape. Aziraphale was helpless. It made the hairs of his body bristles, and he didn’t know if it was due to physical or spiritual contact. He assumed the distinction didn’t matter, in the moment, only what he felt cloak him in celestial light. He was helpless, right then – perhaps because he felt utterly lost in the limits between them, perhaps because he felt adimensional surrounded by the love they shared.

He tried, desperately, so as to not lose any part of him there was to experience, to embrace Crowley’s whole being by running his hands over his languid form, over any part of the demon that surfaced – his chest, his bottom, his scalp. Only to realize he couldn’t possibly know where each material aspect of them fit in reality.

An answer, before long.

I’ll show you with every inexorable fiber of my existence.

He’d show him for there _was_ no other option.

The meeting of their souls was as impending then as it had ever been.

If it was due to a miracle, or to humanly effort, neither knew – but in a few minutes there was no more between them than their naked material existences. They touched in so many façades, all of the them made of light and pleasure and tenderness…

Aziraphale trailed kisses down his tummy, and Crowley felt tears blossom with the notion that this angel basked in his bare essence. He caressed the golden locks and the powerful pulsation between them that originated from somewhere around their centers, he touched his mouth to it, licked lips and each spot of skin there was to lick amongst the infinity that surrounded them.

He gasped, letting his feelings show in any way they favored. He grasped, trying to eternalize a sentiment through skin, impossible as it might’ve seemed.

Aziraphale sensed their wings unfurled and unchained and knew not whether they were aboard the air or sinking into the ground – there were no clear limitations, none that obeyed human parameters, at least. It had been so long since they assumed any such form, and to know they did so in harmony with each other was deeply satisfying.

They fondled, and kissed, and reverenced, and loved and loved and loved until love was all there was to it – and, to their astonishment, love was scintillating and blinding and ethereal.

It was ephemerous, yet it was lasting.

They rested heads side by side on the meadow.

For a moment, they were one and they were loved and that was it.

Now, the gorgeousness of the world blazed in thousands of colors, supporting their fragile breathless frames.

Crowley turned his head first, a reverent expression on his face that made Aziraphale consider him restored to angelic nature. He exhaled and favored the angel with a grin.

Aziraphale laughed softly, admiring his undressed form. Full of sharp angles and soft hairs. He ran one hand over Crowley’s chest. The curve of a pec, the fine line of his clavicle. Upon touching a nipple, Crowley shivered.

“Ooh. We can try that again as much as you like, angel, but I’m afraid I’m in need of a refractory period. Not much of an athlete, myself.”

Aziraphale only smiled fondly.

“There’s something I wanted to do, my dear. If you don’t mind leaving this…” he hesitated, looking around them at the loose flowers. “Paradise.”

Crowley blushed.

“Lead the way, dearest.” He replied, despite his sudden bashfulness.

* * *

In an instant they were back in Aziraphale’s bookshop.

It smelled its familiar dusty scent, it looked its well-known earthy colors, and yet Crowley felt a significant trepidation upon following Aziraphale inside.

Everything he’d held the closest to his heart for ages suddenly felt just a tiny bit different. As if someone had sprinkled it with a glittery powder that made anything it touched more stupefying.

He was quite sure it made him sillier than he fancied.

They made their way towards the back of the bookshop, and Crowley got comfortable on the sofa. He slouched the most recklessly he could to shoo away the awkward and unexpected shyness he was getting. One of the stupidities of being in love, he reckoned.

Boy. That was so unfamiliar he felt heady.

And then when Aziraphale came through the door, it was like he instantly knew how to act again.

The angel looked radiant, clad in his antiquate fashion and a courteous smirk. In his hands there were two glasses of wine, as dictated tradition. A part of Crowley yearned to ouch him as soon as possible, but another part of him, which was in control this time, was satisfied only to admire his intricate figure.

Somewhere among the insides of the shop, a song began to play. He could discern the low tones of early-century jazz, recognizing Ella Fitz’s duet with Louis Armstrong of “The Nearness of You”.

As Aziraphale stood in front of him awhile, he got up to oblige him.

“Well, angel?”

The angel handed him one of the glasses.

“To what shall we toast, dear demon?”

Crowley tried to find something clever to say. Why did he suddenly want to sound smart?

“To ourselves, I guess.” He settled with the obvious.

“To love”, Aziraphale said, though it wasn’t a correction – it was an acknowledgement.

So they clinked their glasses and took a sip of it. Crowley supposed that was the Portuguese wine they never drank last time, for it did taste musky and sweetly adulatory.

Aziraphale moved their glasses onto the coffee tables, then, and measured him with a specific stance – his hands and body invited Crowley somewhere.

“My dear friend… Will you give me this dance?”

“’Course.” Crowley managed through the lump on his throat.

Aziraphale once again flourished in the spaces throughout his body where there was only nothingness; his hands found his waist, and rhythmized the way his torso moved.

Crowley kept his hand on the angel’s chest, rubbing over it as an attempt to know him the most anyone had ever done. Could he? He contoured the forms of his profile and tugged his waist to align their bodies. Then he worked his nose to fondle Aziraphale’s scented locks.

They smelled like coconut and old stuff.

Over the silence that enveloped them, the words drifting through the music were only too obvious.

He murmured them in the angel’s ear, delighted.

“I need no soft lights to enchant me…” He was aware of his rough, imperfect voice trying the sweet melody, and of Aziraphale melting into it.

“If you’ll only grant me… The right…”

They moved without thinking about it, just wasting in each other’s arms.

“To hold you ever so tight… And to feel, in the night…”

Crowley closed in his nose to Aziraphale’s that moment, taking in his hazy look with pleasure.

“The nearness of you…”

With that he touched his lips to Aziraphale’s and lingered.

The angel let out the breath he’d been holding and cradled Crowley’s face in his hands.

“You planned it all, didn’t you? Almost seems as if you’re the one to tempt me…”

Aziraphale chuckled light-heartedly.

“Almost all of it. You beat me to it with the song…”

He frowned as they swayed over the room.

“That wasn’t me, angel…”

“It wasn’t?” Aziraphale stopped, pouted in confusion, and soon engaged the demon in their slow-dance again. “Well, it wasn’t me either, dear.”

“Huh. I guess that don’t matter now, though, does it?”

As Aziraphale smiled, he caressed his warm cheek, in tune with their dance and their hearts and their love.


End file.
